


Morning & Night

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Backrubs, F/F, Fingerfucking, Shower Sex, Tribadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 00:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3590355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a slice-of-life, domestic, sexy thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning & Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sdk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdk/gifts).



Night:

Hermione just had one of those jobs. Pansy could never do it. Stand over a cauldron all day and hope to Merlin you didn't stir one time too many in a counter-clockwise rather than clockwise direction? No bloody thank you. Obviously, it took skill and diligence. Hermione was, of course, smart as all fuck. She was meticulous. She was perfect.

Pansy was not perfect. Pansy wasn't meticulous. And she had to be in nearly constant motion or she felt like she might kill someone. Pity the nearby Hufflepuff. Pansy taught Defence to the new Auror trainees, and she loved it. She came home sweaty and flushed and starving. She came home happy. But of course, that had a lot to do with who was inside the door, too.

"Hey," she'd say to Hermione, cross-legged on the sofa and going over potions recipes, parchments strewn everywhere.

"Hey," the frowning, distracted reply.

Pansy, rolling her eyes, would strip on the way to the bathroom and then shower off her day.

She'd make dinner in boys' boxers and an undershirt while Hermione fire-called Draco about the Dragon Tonic they were working on. Pansy had become quite handy with a spatula, and Italian was her current favourite, though Indian was close behind and it really all depended on what Hermione was in the mood for anyway.

Hermione would start cracking her back, and Pansy would stir slowly, taste, add spices, roll her eyes at Draco's annoying drawl, only to hear Potter intervene, his head thrust through the Floo instead, "He needs to be going now. Night, Hermione."

Potter was always the one to shut down the work. 

Pansy would just bide her time. 

"Dinner!" she'd call.

Hermione usually only had to take one bite and she'd melt a little – lose a fraction of that pent-up, workaholic tension she radiated.

"Wine?"

"Yes, please."

And Pansy would pour just enough. She'd be going for tipsy, not dead asleep.

But sometimes she overshot. Hermione was the Potions Master after all. She knew amounts to the gram. Pansy just winged it. And if Hermione looked like she'd had a rough day, she might err to the liberal pour.

They'd settle down after for the telly, a device from Hermione's childhood that Pansy had taken a rather distinct liking to. They'd watch in the bedroom, curled into scarlet pillows and Ravenclaw-coloured sheets. (Pansy had claimed a delightfully Slytherin study, so she really couldn't complain.) 

Half a show in, and Hermione would pop her neck again.

"Come here."

"Mmm." Hermione would shift into the open V of Pansy's legs, and Pansy would start on that taut stretch between the shoulder blades. "Oh god…" Hermione would groan.

"This silly thing is in my way," Pansy complained, picking at the 'Gryffindor Pride' t-shirt. "Strip it off."

"You're awfully bossy."

"You're awfully dressed."

The small smile over her shoulder and the offending shirt abandoned to the bedroom floor.

So much skin…

"Lie down."

"But I won't be able to see." And despite the complaint, she'd already be sliding onto her stomach with a sigh.

Pansy would straddle her arse, Summon a bit of lotion, and then push her thumbs into Hermione's muscles.

"Pans…"

That could always make her wet… Hermione gasping her name like that. Pansy would shift, just one thrust to ease the beginnings of ache.

Hermione would moan and breathe and whisper, "Thank you," so sweetly. She'd start to slur from sheer exhaustion rather than wine.

Pansy would stroke the sides of her breasts with the backs of her fingers. "Can I fuck you?"

Too tired to move her lips, Hermione would answer, "Mmhmm."

But Pansy would lean down, kiss her shoulders, and then gentle her strokes down Hermione's back until her breath evened out, the show they'd quit watching ended, and then Pansy would unstraddle her, lie by her side, pull the covers over them, and fall asleep faced the wrong way in their bed.

 

Morning:

 

Pansy just had one of those jobs. It made it hard to roll out of bed in the morning, her body so thrashed from the day previous.

But sometimes she'd wake to Hermione's sleepy smile, her hair tousled as she lay on her side and looked at Pansy like she was something special.

"Hey," Hermione would say.

"Hey."

"Would you fuck me?"

And Pansy would gasp. Hermione had a way of waking her up – better than coffee, tea, breakfast, earthquakes, anything.

Pansy would roll over on top of her, watching her lover's smile grow as Pansy pressed her into sumptuous pillows.

Getting her boxers down quickly, just past her knees, grasping Hermione's wrists.

"Oh Merlin…"

Hermione's legs lifting, wrapping around her body, and Pansy's hips would already be rocking.

"Am I on it? Am I getting your clit?"

A bitten lip. "Mmhmm."

Pansy reaching down, a hand into Hermione's knickers, tight between them. "How about that?"

"Oh God, Pans…"

And then Pansy's hand, her hips, in concert, rocking between her lover's thighs.

She'd very rarely say 'I love you', because she's a Slytherin bitch. Because she's afraid. Because 'I want to eat you out,' would be easier and still truthful.

But Hermione could tell when she would want to. She'd get that look about her. Like she knew everything.

Pansy would dip a finger into her wet cunt, and Hermione would whine, "Fuck, I love you."

"I want to make you come."

"I love you."

"I want to fuck you until you cry."

"You love me."

Breathless, caught, blinking. And then Hermione coming hard, riding her finger, her hips, and Pansy would screw her down into the rumpled sheets with how deep her heart hurt from it.

Hermione's breathing would slow, their hips settling. Pansy would slip her hand free.

"Do you want to?" Hermione asking with that mischievous smile.

"Later. You know I'm shit at work if you do that to me first."

"After, though."

"You'd better." Already she would be picturing them in the shower together, Hermione running her hands up Pansy's body from behind and cupping her breasts, Pansy arching and wanting it so hard.

Hermione smiling up at her now, smoothing her hair.

Pansy just had one of those jobs: making this woman happy. And it made everything else easier.


End file.
